Things We Pass On
by Gina44144
Summary: Six things parents pass onto their children.  Gen, preseries story with all of the Winchesters.


Title: Things We Pass On

Fandom: SPN

Author: relli86

Rating: PG, frequent use of the "f-word" in one section

Words: 3,260

Spoilers: AHBL, Part 2

Characters/Pairings: Gen, preseries and season 2 Finale, All the Winchesters, John/Mary

Summary: Six things parents pass onto their childrenSix things parents pass onto their children.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Supernatural or the Winchesters, no matter how much I may want to.

Author's Note: Thanks to gwendolyngrace for the super-quick beta! I appreciate it so much!

**i. History**

The first time John learns the truth he's six years old.

His oldest brother Jeff is eighteen, working at the steel mill in town. He comes home tired and dirty, but still manages to find time to "entertain the ladies" as he puts it. John's not really sure what that means, but he thinks it sounds kind of gross anyway.

Jeff is about to walk out the door with his girl of the week, and John races through the small house to meet him at the door.

"Jeff!" he says, staring up at his tall brother, "Where are you going?"

The girl with Jeff coos at him, and John does his best to ignore it. As long as she leaves his cheeks alone, he can handle it.

Jeff frowns at John's question and tries to distract the girl from all her fawning by pulling her closer to him. "None of your business."

The girl, however, is swayed by John's wide eyes and innocent smile. "We're going to the fair!" she squeals, high-pitched and piercing, but all John hears is "fair" and all he sees are funnel cakes and Ferris Wheels and all the cotton candy he can eat.

"Can I go too, Jeff? Can I?" John asks, bouncing up and down on his feet, a hopeful smile on his face.

The look on Jeff's face banishes the smile from John's. "No way, squirt. Go bug Brian or something. Besides," he continues, turning around and steering the girl out the door, "isn't it past your bedtime?"

John's face falls, and he stares out through the screen door as Jeff and his date walk down the rickety porch steps.

"That was kind of mean," John hears the girl tell Jeff, "He's your little brother."

Jeff shrugs, pulls the girl along. "He's just my half-brother," Jeff tells her, like it makes all the difference.

John watches them get into the rundown car and drive away. He stares down the street for a long time, trying to understand what Jeff had said.

When he can't make sense of it himself, he takes Jeff's advice and goes to find Brian, his fourteen-year-old brother.

John heads to the small room his two brothers share. The door is shut, but that's done nothing to deter John before, so he pushes it open, trying to be as quiet as possible.

When he sticks his head in, the room is dark, but he can make out Brian on his bed, his back facing the door. John can see one hand holding a magazine, but the other one is hidden from his view.

"Brian?" John asks, his voice quiet and soft.

At his name, Brian's head whips around and he glares at John. "Get out, you little pervert. Do I have to padlock the door to keep you out?"

"But . . ." John tries to explain, but Brian cuts him off.

"Get out!" Brian all but bellows, and John really doesn't need to be told a third time.

He shuts the door behind him and practically runs from the room. He doesn't understand his brothers or why they want nothing to do with him. He tries to remember if it was always like that, but his memory doesn't go back that far.

When he's a safe distance away from Brian's room, he slows down and seeks out the one person he knows will answer his question no matter how busy she is.

He finds her in the kitchen, washing dishes in her waitress uniform and leaning heavily on the counter.

"Mama?" he asks, and she turns at the sound of her name.

"Hi, baby," she says, a too bright smile on her face, the kind that doesn't reach her eyes. She has more lines and wrinkles on her face than John remembers, and he doesn't like how tired it makes her look.

When John doesn't speak, Mama puts the dish back into the sink and comes over to John, sinking on her knees to his level.

She puts one soapy hand on his confused face and the other wraps around his waist, pulling him closer.

"What's the matter?" she asks, the question soft and just the right amount of curious.

John wants to shake his head, say "Nothing," because she just looks so tired and he doesn't want to make it worse. But Mama has other plans.

"You can tell me, Johnny," she says, rubbing small circles on his back.

John bites his lip and looks into his mother's eyes. "What's a . . ." he begins hesitantly, "what's a half-brother?"

The hand on John's back stills, and Mama sucks in a breath. "Oh, baby," she whispers, her voice fading away.

They stay that way for what seems like forever. Mama staring and looking lost and John just trying to understand.

"Where'd you hear that?" Mama asks.

John hesitates briefly; he doesn't want to get his brother in trouble; that'd be really mean. But Mama wants the truth, and John's always been too afraid to lie to her like his brothers do.

"Jeff told that girl that I was just his half-brother."

Mama sighs from the gut, and John wishes he'd never asked. "A half-brother means that . . . that you only have one parent that's the same."

"But you're our mom, right?"

"Yeah, I am, but, the thing is, you don't have the same father that Jeff and Brian do," Mama explains slowly as she can.

John thinks of the picture on Mama's nightstand. It's of a man he's never meant, dressed in a Marine uniform and staring at the camera like he just might eat it. He knows that it's of Mama's husband, but he'd died. Sometimes, Mama got real sad when she looked at it.

He knows that the man is Brian and Jeff's daddy, and John guesses he always thought that he was his daddy, too.

"Then who's my daddy?" John asked.

Mama's face falls so much more at his question that he's afraid it will fall off. "After Jeff and Brian's daddy died in Korea, in the war like I told you before, I met your daddy. He lived here with us for a little while, but . . ." she stops for a minute and John waits for her to finish with more patience than most six year olds, "but it just didn't work out."

"Where is my daddy now?" he asks.

"I don't know, baby. He . . . left a few months before you were born."

John nods slowly and looks down at the tiled floor, trying to find a pattern in his confusion. He thinks about his last name and how it's different than Jeff's and Brian's and even Mama's. They're all Matthews, but John's not. He'd never understood why before.

"Is that why my last name is different?"

Mama nods. "That's why."

"Is it my daddy's last name?"

"No, baby, Winchester is my last name, and I wanted you to have it."

John likes his last name; he'd always thought it was pretty cool and he's glad Mama gave it to him.

"I like it, Mama," he says, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Thank you," he whispers.

Mama kisses the top of his head. "You're welcome," she says, and her arms are tight around him, but her voice is shaky.

A few days later, when Brian's door is open, he walks in quietly and sees his brother sitting at the small desk, working on his homework.

"Brian?" John asks.

"Yeah, kid," Brian says, turning half in his chair to look at him.

"Did you know my daddy?"

Brian just looks at him for a long time, not saying anything. Then he just nods, and John has to press for more.

"What was he like?"

Brian stares at him again, but finally answers. "He was . . . he was a bad guy, Johnny. He was a drunk, and he hit Mom, even when she was pregnant with you. He finally left when Grandpa found out about it and beat up his scumbag ass."

Brian gets up from his chair then and kneels in front of his brother, wiping away the tears John hadn't even realized he'd shed. "Hey, none of that, kiddo. Don't think about him at all, okay? He's got nothing to do with you. You got it?"

John nods and wipes away the rest of his tears with the back of his hand. "Got it," he says.

Mom dies twelve years later, days shy of John's eighteenth birthday. Cancer takes her in the end. It's slow and brutal and just seems so damn unfair that John can't stand it. His brothers have their own lives now, families and jobs, and there's just no place left for John.

He follows the example of the father that wasn't even his and enlists in the Marines. And for a while, it's home.

**ii. Secrets**.

Mary's mom isn't her real mom. Her real mom died when she was just a baby; the details are fuzzy, but Mary knows that it was bloody and violent and, for a long time, that's enough.

Dad remarries when Mary's only two so Peggy is the only mother Mary's ever really known. Dad and Peggy, whom Mary's always just called Mom, start popping out kids right away.

By the time she's thirteen, Mary has three younger brothers and two younger sisters, and the house is so wild and crazy that sometimes it's hard to breathe.

She loves her siblings and parents, but sometimes she doesn't fit with the rest of the family. She's blonde haired and blue eyed and they're all brunettes with brown eyes. It's like washing a shirt for the first time and finding it doesn't fit like before. It's too snug or too short and no matter how much it's stretched to fit, it's not going to be right again.

When Mary meets John for the first time, fresh out of the Marines, crew cut growing out and stubble growing in, everything just clicks into place. She knows right away, and three months later, when they're walking down the aisle, she ignores her parents' concerns. They're not too young. It's not too sudden. They feel like they've been looking for something their whole lives and there's no turning back now that they've found it.

They buy a house, have Dean then Sam, and home is no longer something they're searching for.

When Sammy cries and the hallway lights flicker, Mary looks into yellow eyes and _knows_. There's a flash, an image, a vision. The woman in the picture she knows as Mom suspended above a crib, a blonde-haired baby inside and flames consuming everything in their path.

Mary looks into yellow eyes and _knows_. This was her mother's end. This is her end. All she'll be is a face in a picture, worn from age and handling. An image that means Mom, but feels like loss.

**iii. Love**

After the flames are gone, but Mommy's still inside, Daddy loads them into the 'Pala and drives them to Mike and Kate's house. They don't go inside right away. Daddy sits in the front seat, hands tight on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

Dean sits in the passenger seat, holding Sammy tight in his arms and staring at Daddy. He wants to ask where Mommy is, but Dean thinks he already knows. He tries to open his mouth, but he feels like a dragon, like if his mouth opens, all that will come out is fire and smoke. So he keeps it closed, for a long time, until he's sure that words will come out and not flames.

That first night they don't sleep. At Mike and Kate's, Daddy arranges them on the bed in the guest room. Daddy's sitting up against the headboard, Dean in his arms and Sammy in Dean's.

Daddy stares ahead and Dean stares at Sammy.

Dean can't close his eyes, can't look away.

"Dean," Daddy says after awhile, his voice like a frog's, but nothing comes after. Dean stares at Sammy, who's staring back.

Later Daddy tries again, rests his hand on Dean's back and pulls him even closer. "Mommy is . . ." he starts, but Dean turns then, looks at Daddy in his glassy, bloodshot eyes.

Dean's eyes say, "I know," because his voice can't, and Daddy doesn't say anything else for a long, long time.

At some point, sitting in the dark, Sammy starts to cry: bone-deep, unrelenting sobs that take over his whole body, shaking his little fists, his little feet, his little chest.

Daddy keeps staring straight ahead, not seeing, not hearing. Dean looks down at Sammy in his arms and starts to rock him. He's unsteady at first, not sure of how fast to go, of how far back to angle. Dean's seen Mommy do this a thousand times and the thought makes him hold on tighter.

After a little while, he finds the right pace, the right angle, and Sammy quiets, tears drying on his red, chubby face.

When Sammy closes his eyes, Dean leans down and kisses him on the forehead, even though he smells like smoke.

**iv. Compassion**

"I'm gonna beat his fucking ass," Dean says, half-way out the door.

"Dean, stop!" Sam yells, clutching his broken volcano, the baking soda and vinegar lava soaking into his shirt and running down his arms. "It's not that big a deal," Sam says through his tears.

"Not a big deal?" Dean almost growls, "You worked on that thing for three weeks. We used grocery money to buy the materials. And this punk thinks he can just break it and not pay the consequences? Right," Dean finishes sarcastically.

Dean's out the door now, and Sam drops the volcano to run out after him. Dean's already at the road, stomping toward town with quick, determined steps.

Sam sprints to catch up and tries to reason with his brother. "Dean, please. It's okay. The teacher said I could turn it in later with no penalty."

"You shouldn't have to turn it in late at all," Dean says.

Sam tugs on Dean's arm, trying to stop him, but Dean just shrugs him off and increases his pace.

Sam has to jog a little to keep up with Dean's longer – though not by much – stride. It doesn't help that Sam's currently veering towards "pleasantly plump" territory, but Dad says he'll hit his growth spurt in a few years and it'll all come off. Dean's also waiting for the elusive growth spurt, but without the extra Kraft and Chef Boyardee weight. Sam would call him scrawny if he didn't know about the muscle that resided beneath the surface.

"Will you stop for a minute?" Sam asks, reaching Dean's side.

"Nope, got a ten-year-old to kill." Dean hesitates at that. "That sounded much more bad-ass in my head."

"Dean? Please, just for a sec," Sam pleads, and Dean finally relents and stops in his tracks, crossing his arms across chest and turning to face Sam.

"You've got 30 'secs'," Dean says, "but only if you promise to never say 'sec' again."

Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn't respond to the teasing because he knows Dean's already counting down the secs – seconds.

"Billy's not a bad guy," Sam begins, "it's just he's going through some stuff and he took it out on me."

"Wow," Dean says sarcastically, "I can't begin to tell you how much I don't care."

"His mom," Sam says, ignoring his brother, "just found out she's got cancer and he's just upset."

"I don't care if he's upset, Sam. I don't care if his whole family got abducted by aliens in front of his eyes. He's a bully, and you know how we handle bullies."

"But he's not! He's never done anything like this before and he apologized right away. I don't want to see you hurt him."

"Then don't watch," Dean says, continuing down the road. "And cover your ears if you're that sensitive."

"**Stop!**" Sam yells at Dean's retreating back as loud as he can. Dean stills and then turns, one eyebrow raised.

"Dude, you sound like a girl, all high-pitched like that."

Sam rolls his eyes: typical Dean. "Will you just listen to me? It's my volcano he broke, and I don't want you to do anything. So just stop it."

Dean stares at Sam for a minute, then shrugs and heads back towards Sam. "God, you are such a push over," he teases.

Later that night, when Dean tells John what happened, John rubs his stubble and smiles. He gets that look in his eyes that usually follows an evening out with Jack and Jose.

But there's no booze in sight, just Dad, looking proud. "Sounds like something your mother would've done," he says.

**v. Temper**

"I hate you!" Sam yells at the top of his lungs.

"Well, I don't like you very much right now, either," John yells back.

"All you care about is hunting and finding the demon. Everything else comes second!"

"I've got priorities, Sam. You should pay attention to them."

"Priorities? That's what you're calling it now? Try obsession."

"Goddammit, Sam, why does everything have to be a fucking fight with you!"

"Because you don't know what the _fuck_ you're fighting for."

Before Sam knows what's happened, he's against the wall of the motel room, the ugly-ass paintings on the wall rattling with the force of John's anger.

Dean's pushing in between them, trying to pry their father's hands off of Sam's shirt.

"You don't get to talk to me like that, boy," John says, low and deadly, the voice reserved for telling spirits to get the fuck back to hell.

Dean's "Come on, Dad, he didn't mean it" is lost somewhere between John's fury and Sam's righteousness.

"I'm your father," John growls.

"Only when you want to be," Sam says, and John just deflates at that, lets go of Sam and backs away.

"I've got to get out of here," John says, wrenching his coat from the back of a kitchen chair and stomping towards the door.

"See what I mean?" Sam screams at John as the door slams behind him.

Sam turns to look at Dean, and Dean's face is pale, his forehead creased with worry lines he's too young to have.

"The two of you," he says, staring at Sam. "The same side of the same fucking coin."

**vi. Sacrifice**

When Sam's body is laid out in front of him, his gray face blending in with the dirty shade of the mattress, all Dean can do is stare.

He's not prepared for this. He can't think or move – God, he can barely breathe.

Dad never gave him guidelines for what to do when he failed his mission.

This isn't in the Winchester Handbook or the Winchester Mission Statement.

This is supposed to be an impossibility, an element of fantasy. But, right now, it's reality, and Dean has to make it not be so.

More than anything, Dad taught by example. _Hold the gun this way, Dean_. _Sprinkle the salt like this_. _Say the exorcism incantation like I'm doing it. Watch me. Shadow me. Be me._

Before Dean can even process the implications, the decision's made and he's driving towards the nearest crossroads with the reckless abound of a man who has nothing left to lose.

As he buries the metal box in the loose, gravelly dirt, he thinks that of all the things Dad passed on, this may be the most important.


End file.
